


In Winter's Grasp

by RunningRedRiot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A bit of Dark!Jon, Angst, Be warned there is background Jonerys, Betrayal, Gen, Not really romance but I'm a Jonsa shipper so some stuff might slip through, This is me working out my feelings from that finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningRedRiot/pseuds/RunningRedRiot
Summary: The bite of winter had never been so cruel before.





	1. distance between

It is snowing when they arrive.

 

Winter kisses the castle and all those who reside within its walls. As a persistent flurry of snow falls upon them, Sansa and her family stand at the head of the lords representing the North and the Vale. Even now she can feel their discontentment as easily as she can feel the blood flowing through her veins. Her cheeks and ears burn with the cold but she does not avert her gaze from the main gate. She knows what is to come is far more important than her own discomfort.

 

The obtuse blare of a horn signals the arrival of the royal party. The gates are thrown open and two columns of spearmen march through in perfect unity. There is an aura of cold precision as they arrange themselves into rows facing one another, creating a path that ten horses could ride through abreast. Sansa looks at their spiked caps and long sharp steel and can't help but feel a sense of foreboding that reaches all the way to her bones.

 

Once the soldiers are arranged, then come the riders. They trot through the gates like conquering heroes. Above them flies the royal banner with the queen's sigil. As a child Sansa had loved to memorize and name the sigils of houses to impress her Septa and parents. Her favorite ones had been the bright, pretty banners that depicted beautiful animals.

 

The three-headed dragon roaring upon a midnight field had never been one of her favorites.

 

She recognizes a few of the newcomers right away. Tyrion Lannister is a hard man to miss despite his size. He is wrapped in thick furs that nearly swallow him whole. Sansa notes that his mismatched eyes take in their assembly and narrow the slightest bit. He looks to Varys the Spider at his shoulder and the two share a look. They know this will not be an easy affair.

 

_Good_ , Sansa thinks, but she has no time for further thoughts as a voice rings out.

 

"Let it be known! You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen. Rightful Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons. 

 

There are no applauds given. No triumphant cheers or calls for the queen's blessing. There is nothing but a chilly silence as the Dragon Queen and the King Who Knelt ride into the courtyard together and bring their horses to a stop. Sansa sees Jon dismount and wait for the queen to do the same. There is a rustle to her right and she fights the urge to groan. Two shadows dart towards the collection of riders at a scandalous pace. Jon barely turns in time to catch Arya as she leaps into his arms. Ghost comes up right after her and bumps Jon with his shoulder. The hugging pair almost tip over but Jon rights himself at the last minute. Both are laughing loudly and with the distinct inflection that tells her they are close to tears. 

 

Sansa can see Jon and Arya speaking animatedly when a hand falls on his shoulder. He dips back slightly to allow Arya and the Dragon Queen to come face to face. She can't hear what they are saying and the queen's face is a mask that gives nothing away. After a moment, the group turns and begins making its way to her. 

 

Sansa straightens her back and raises her chin defiantly. She refuses to show weakness. When the group reaches her, it is Jon who speaks first. "It is good to see you in fair health, Sansa."

 

Sansa gives a stiff bow. "And you as well, Your Grace."

 

A shadow flits across his face and Sansa knows. Knows that his letter and the rumors from White Harbor had been truthful. Knows that Jon-good, brave, honorable Jon had done exactly what he had said he'd done. Bent the knee and given their home away to another.

 

A fiery anger grips her at that moment. Jon is oblivious though, as he turns and raises a hand towards his chosen sovereign. "I present Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."

 

The Dragon Queen swaggers forward with clasped hands. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa. And allow me to say your home is quite impressive. It is all Lord Snow promised it would be."

 

The way 'Lord Snow' rolls of her tongue rankles Sansa, though not half as much as the amused look Jon shoots Daenerys. The queen raises an eyebrow as if daring him to take her bait. 

 

Sansa's voice is cold and brittle when she speaks. "Thank you, my lady. Winterfell is indeed an ancient and impressive sight."

 

 Daenerys frowns. Sansa wonders if she will be petty enough to correct her immediately or let the slight go in the name of cooperation. Before the queen can respond, a cheerful voice cuts through the group. "Ah, my eyes did not deceive me. You are looking quite radiant, wife."

 

Tyrion has a wide grin on his face as he waddles up to her. Just as clever as ever. Sansa favors him with a nod. "A pleasure to see you again, Lord Tyrion."

 

Daenerys cuts in before her Hand can respond. "Perhaps we can continue this inside? It is the middle of winter after all."

 

_You know nothing of winter._

 

Instead of saying that, Sansa swallows her tongue in her own home and says, "Of course. Please follow me to the Great Hall. I have prepared a hot meal for everyone."

 

**==========**

 

The room is thick with tension. Sansa can feel it every time she takes in a breath. Her people are angry and upset that they have been disregarded so easily. Sansa can see it in their blazing eyes and hunched shoulders. She had done what she could to calm them after Jon's folly had been revealed and for the moment there is peace. But she is afraid to think what comes next. 

 

Sansa's table is not so dour. Jon, Arya, and Daenerys all talk easily and rapidly to one another. They share tales and stories of places they have been. Past victories are embellished and future ones are boasted of. It is entirely inappropriate for the mood of the room, so Sansa cannot bring herself to join in. 

 

A finger taps the bowl in front of her and she turns to look at the person beside her. Tyrion nods towards the bowl. "Not hungry, my lady?"

 

"I'm afraid I've lost my appetite."

 

"A shame. I myself have missed Northern cuisine quite a bit. Though I missed the whores more."

 

Sansa can't help herself. She lets out a giggle. Some of the anger inside her ebbs away. "That kind of talk is scandalous, my lord. What will people say when they discover the noble Hand of the Dragon Queen is a womanizing lecher?"

 

Tyrion lets out a huff. "You wound me. I have been nothing but honest with my Queen and her subjects."

 

She narrows her eyes and shoots him a dead stare. " Is it really 'her subjects' already? To my knowledge Cersei Lannister still sits the Iron Throne."

 

"And is it to my sweet sister that you give your allegiance?"

 

Sansa nearly chokes with outrage. "My allegiance is to the  _North_ , my lord. To my home and to my people."

 

"And to your family, no doubt," when she doesn't reply he grins and looks conspicuously over the table to where Jon and Daenerys are explaining to Arya what it is like beyond the Wall. " Your sister seems quite taken with my queen."

 

"My sister would swallow any manner of foul meal for Jon's sake."

 

"A fortunate occurrence for us then that the queen managed to win your brother's loyalty."

 

_That is not the word I would use to describe it._

 

The anger wells within her once more. There is a sour taste on her tongue as she gazes across the table at Jon. It takes Sansa a moment to recognize it as the bitter taste of betrayal. 

 

**==========**

 

After supper, she fades away to her solar and summons her sworn shield and the Onion Knight. Brienne of Tarth stands tall and proud in her armor and furs. Oathkeeper gleams brightly from her hip and there is a tranquility to her face. She is glad to once again be protecting her charge. Ser Davos is not so receptive to the summons. He is hunched over and weary. He does not quite meet her eyes. That warns Sansa of bad news to come.

 

"Tell me it all," she says to the pair. "What happened at King's Landing? What happened at Dragonstone?"

 

Brienne's voice is clear and concise when she tells the tale of the Dragonpit parley. She speaks of violent tension that hung about as the major players of Westeros attempted to put aside their differences to save all that they know. When she gets to the part explaining Cersei's promise to stand down, Sansa cannot help but shake her head at Jon and the Daenerys' stupidity. _Surely they did not believe her? And Tyrion.....what game is he playing?_

 

Sansa turns to Davos when it is his turn to speak. He proves not as forthcoming as Brienne. "Beggin your pardon my lady, but you would be better served asking His Grace's account of our time on Dragonstone."

 

_Would I?_  "You title my brother with a king's honor, Ser Davos. Yet he named himself Warden in the North in the last letter he penned me. So what am I to believe? What is the truth?"

 

Ser Davos shifts uncomfortably. "Far be it for me to contradict my lord's own words."

 

"I will ask you one final time, Ser. Will you speak to what exactly happened on Dragonstone to make Jon give away the North?"

 

The Onion Knight gave a long sigh at that. "I must ask for your forgiveness, my lady. You have been nothing but kind and generous to me. But I do not serve you. I serve Jon Snow, and it is he who has the answers you seek."

 

Sansa stares at him for a long time. As much as she wishes to rebuke him for those words, she cannot. She knows that the only path that would lead to the truth was the one that took her to Jon Snow.

 

**==========**

 

He finds her atop the ramparts of the Northernmost wall of Winterfell. His steps are strong and unhurried as he comes to stand beside her and join in looking out into the frigid fields of winter.Times passes slowly for a long while. Sansa does not know if it is one hour or a thousand before he speaks, "Ser Davos says you wished to speak to me". It is not a question.

 

Sansa closes her eyes and takes in a calming breath. The moment she has been dreading has come. "Yes. Do you remember what you once said to me when we stood at this spot after we'd retaken Winterfell?"

 

Jon shakes his head, grey eyes twinkling with curiosity.

 

"You said," she continued, "That we had to trust one another. That we couldn't fight a war amongst ourselves. We had too many enemies already."

 

He smiles suddenly. The skin around his eyes crinkles with mirth and his voice is warm. "I remember." 

 

Sansa forges on. "That....meant so much to me. You were honest and forthcoming. You wanted us to work together to protect our home. When you said you were leaving the North in my hands for all our bannermen to hear, it was like a dream come true."

 

Jon's smile turns to a frown. His brow furrows as he says, "I don't understand, Sansa. What are you trying to say?"

 

That dark anger inside her bubbles up to the surface again. "I am trying to ask why you have  _betrayed_ me despite all your past promises of trust!"

 

Jon jerks back as if she'd slapped him. His eyes go wide as if she'd spat on him. She supposes she just did. "Betrayal? Where did you get that notion?"

 

"What else would you call bending the knee and surrendering our home to a foreign queen who has no place in Westeros?"

 

Jon shakes his head at her words. "No, that was no betrayal. I have secured the only chance the North has of surviving the Long Night. Queen Daenerys is our last, best chance of survival." 

 

"What of the wishes of your people? They do not want her as their queen, Jon. They want to be ruled by one of their own. How could you disregard them so?"

 

She can see the anger in his eyes as he counters, "I never asked for this crown, but they made me King none the less. Chose me to lead them and make their decisions for them. They can be unhappy with my choice until the Wall melts. It will not change the facts. What's done is done."

 

Sansa can scarcely hear him for the blood rushing in her ears. "So that's it? You have made us subjects of Daenerys Targaryen without even waiting for a proper discussion on the matter?"

 

Jon turns to face her fully. "I don't need to discuss anything. I was the North's King and now I am its Warden. We shall fight with Daenerys' armies against the Night King and should we prevail, Cersei Lannister is next. I know it may be hard for you to understand, but this is the best path for the North. Daenerys is a worthy queen. We need only give her time and she shall prove that a thousand times over. Trust me." 

 

Sansa stares at him, a twisting feeling in her belly.  _He dares speak of trust_ , she thinks. Jon turns away and begins walking to the stairs. She does not know what possesses her to speak then, but calls out, "Why did the Dragon Queen not fly to the North?"

 

Jon stills. He half turns to look her in the eye. There is uncertainty in his gaze, "What?"

 

The words seem to come from out of nowhere. "It strikes me as odd, is all. Daenerys Stormborn is a dragonrider, is she not? Why did she come by ship instead of by dragon? Especially when she knew it could be dangerous."

 

Jon's eyes are an open book to her when they widen. "Well.....it was....you must see that....I thought it would send a better message to the North....if we sailed together."

 

Sansa laughs. It is a cold, cutting laugh that resembles the scraping of a rusty knife. Gods, he really was determined to ignore her advice to the bitter end. "Oh, trust me Jon. I see  _perfectly_  well why you made that decision."

 

Jon opens his mouth to speak but Sansa doesn't let him. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you what Robb's choice cost not only him, but our entire family as well. I hope you at least found what you were looking for. Good day to you, my lord."

 

With that she spins away and marches down the castle's wall, skirts whirling all around her. She hears Jon's call but doesn't stop. 

 

She is done trusting his words.

 

**==========**

 

A fortnight passes after their meeting in the snow. The organization of the armies takes longer than expected, the logistics more complicated than previously thought. The delays prove dangerous as the tension within WInterfell begins to boil.

 

Jon can do nothing but watch. 

 

The North he returned to is almost unrecognizable from the one he left. Littlefinger is dead, slain by Sansa's command and Arya's steel. The Northern lords (his own bannermen) scorn and spit upon him. The Vale lords look down their noses at him and sniff as if they had smelled fresh horse dung. His family is not much better save for Arya. Bran is much changed from the boy he knew. Grown into a man he has, but older and wiser than his years. Far older. At times his eyes appear to hold a fathomless knowledge that no young man should bear. There was more to it than that though. There was something in Bran's gaze that unsettled Jon. Like there was a secret he should know but was not told. It was maddening. 

 

And Sansa......

 

Jon tries to stifle his frustration. He had expected, even hoped, that Sansa would back his decision once he had explained it to her. But it was not to be. She had not spoken to him since their last quarrel. She did her best to avoid him and when he did manage to catch her she would turn her head and raise her chin to his attempts at talking. He was always reminded of Lady Catelyn in those moments. 

 

Making his way to the Great Hall, Jon does his best to not let his dark mood show. It would do him no favors to let his subjects see his frustration. Crossing the threshold, Jon makes his way towards the west wing of the castle where Daenerys is waiting for him.

 

That is when the whispers begin once more. 

 

They have dogged him since his return home. His bannermen have no qualms about reminding him of their opinions concerning his decision to bend the knee. Dissent to his face is something he can handle. It is the whispers when his back is turned that gnaw at him. Whispers like those always precede daggers in the dark.

 

These whispers come from a group of guardsmen manning their post. They carry steel and bear the sigil of House Glover. They eye Jon as he passes and when his back is to them they begin to talk in quiet voices. Jon does his best to ignore them, instead picturing Dany's smiling face and what awaits him.

 

"Think the traitorous bastard is off to fuck the dragon whore again?"

 

Jon is marching towards the man who spoke before he even realizes what his happening. "Repeat that."

 

The man and his compatriots turn at his approach. There are four of them in total. The man who spoke is tall and broad-shouldered. He is a head taller than Jon himself and clearly relishes that most people must crane their necks to look him in the eye. He smiles to reveal yellow teeth. "Repeat what, m'lord?"

 

His closest comrade jerks his head. "Donnel don't-"

 

Jon silences him with a hand. "Let the man speak."

 

The man, Donnel, squares his shoulders and looks Jon straight in the eye. "I didn't say nothing that weren't true. You're a bastard and a traitor. You bring nothing but dishonor to the name Ned Stark. The Gods were kind to allow the Lannisters to butcher him. Spared him the shame of having to see his bastard betray all that he cared for. And I bet you were on your way to fuck that foreign whore o' yours. Tell us, how is she?"

 

Jon's vision goes black. The next thing he knows his hands have wrapped around Donnel's throat and he has smashed the guard into the nearest wall. Jon can feel someone grab his elbow but he throws him off and drives his fist into Donnel's face. Once, twice, thrice, the sound of crunching bone is disturbingly loud in the silence of the hallway. 

 

The sound of screeching steel breaks him from his trance. He lets go and Donnel slumps to the ground, sobbing through his ruined mouth. Turning, Jon comes face to face with the naked blades of the three remaining guards. 

 

He stares hard at them, not even bothering to reach for Longclaw. "It is death to bear steel against your liege lord. "

 

The guards stiffen. They are afraid. He can smell it on them. It is the same smell Ghost has shared with him on his nightly hunts through the Wolfswood. It was the natural state for the weak to fear the strong. For the prey to bow before the hunter.

 

His voice is soft when he speaks. "I will forgive you this one time. Sheath those blades, take your man to the Maester, and I will forget about this farce. If not....." 

 

A moment the length of eternity passes. Then the guard closest to him jams his sword in his sheath. He bows his head three times and mumbles a "Thank you, Lord Snow" before hurrying over to Donnel. The two remaining guards do the same and the whole group scurries out of the hall as fast as they can.

 

Jon's hands quiver as he continues his way down the hall. 

 

**==========**

 

His confrontation with the guards is not the only violent encounter to grace Winterfell's walls. Knights, Men-at-arms, Unsullied, and Dothraki clash frequently at even the slightest provocation. Nobody says it out loud but it is clear as day that the Northmen and Valemen are inches away from open rebellion. Jon has a strong suspicion whose head they'd come for first. It is with this in mind that he joins the Queen and her counsel to discuss options. 

 

"At the rate we are stabbing one another in the back, the Night King will find Winterfell devoid of life by the time he makes it south of the Wall." Tyrion finishes that cheery thought with a healthy pull from his goblet.

 

Daenerys glares at him as he drinks. "We have to figure out a way to bring these Northmen to heel. How are we supposed to concentrate on the Long Night if we are expecting treachery from our backs?"

 

Varys speaks up. "We can't fight a war on two fronts, especially not from within our own army. Perhaps we can entice the dissidents with some kind of offer? Something to tickle them into submission until we can deal with the more pressing threat."

 

Jon shakes his head. "They won't listen to anything we have to say. Myself included."

 

"Unless we say it in such a way that they respect."

 

All eyes land on Tyrion as he refills his wine. There is a look of deathly seriousness on his face.

 

"What way do you mean?" asks Daenerys.

 

"Northerners value their traditions. Valemen value their honor. Let us use this to our advantage and to their disadvantage." His eyes land on Jon and suddenly he knows exactly what Tyrion speaks of.

 

He nods at Tyrion. "We do this the old way."

 

Daenerys looks ready to ask again what they mean but Tyrion speaks first. His voice is flat and grave when he says, "We wager everything on single combat. The winner rules all.....and the loser submits." 


	2. battle lines drawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sovereignty is not given, it is taken." - Kemal Ataturk.

The room was near to bursting. Lords and ladies jostled and pushed trying to get to a seat. The library was never meant to house so many at one time but it was the one place Sansa was certain the Dragon Queen's ears would not reach. At least for the moment.

 

Before her were arranged all the high lords and ladies of the North and the Vale. Lord Wyman Manderly sat to her right, his girth nearing eclipsing Lord Glover who sat next to him. Lord Cerwyn and Lady Mormont were placed further down. To her left was the Vale delegation, led by Lord Yohn Royce. In his party were the Lords Corbray, Templeton, and Redfort. Rounding out their placement was Lady Waynwood.

 

They had all come to her asking for one thing. To put forth a united front with which they could defy the Dragon Queen. They had no desire to go back under the yoke of the Targaryens. As fate would have it, they had turned to Sansa for leadership. Sansa knew their situation was dire. Even with all the combined strength of their Houses, Daenerys' armies still dwarfed them in size. There was the matter of the dragons as well. They would have to be dealt with, but such a task may very well be beyond them.  _Unless......._

 

Her bannermen did not share her caution. They roared and argued. Blustered and pontificated. Sansa remained silent for a time, allowing the more rowdy of her followers to tire themselves out before they got down to it.

 

"Let us speak of our options, my lords and ladies." She wills her voice to be clear and strong. To project stability and confidence. It seems to work as those around the table quiet and look to her.

 

They talk long into the night. All agree that an independent but united kingdom of the North and Vale is a dream worthy of fighting for. The question of how to make that dream a reality is not so unanimous. Her more martial allies call for open war against the dragons, despite the White Walkers fast approaching. Others argue for subtler strategies. Wait until the Dragon Queen has exhausted herself fighting the dead, then strike at her directly. Cut of its head and even a dragon will die. The idea is dark and honor less. _But it may very well be the only way my people will know freedom._

 

She silences any talk of fighting immediately. "The army of the dead must take priority. If it does not, then we are all doomed regardless of who sits the Iron Throne."

 

Her people grumble but agree. Wyman Manderly, his size as impressive as ever, rises from his place. "Let us not forget the most important reason for our gathering, my friends! Let us choose our sovereign here and now."

 

Every face turns to her and Sansa knows what is coming next. A deep feeling of anxiety and excitement coils in her belly and she is suddenly afraid of fainting in the face of all that lays before her. But Sansa does not faint. She clenches her clasped hands, recalls the faces of her mother and father, and rises up from her chair. The assembly before her move from their seats to kneel. It makes the cramped room even harder to maneuver in, but her people are smiling so she cannot fault them. Wyman's voice speaks softly, tone bordering on reverence, "Sansa of House Stark, do you swear to stand as the shield of the North and Vale? Do you swear to guard its people from all enemies whether fair or foul? Do you swear to live and die for our realm?"

 

A moment passes. Then, "I do so swear. I swear to protect all of you by whatever means necessary. I swear to fight for you with whatever strength I possess. I swear to rule over you with fairness and justice. I swear to be your sovereign from this day, until my last day."

 

There can be no cheering like there was for Robb and Jon. If Daenerys Targaryen had any inkling of this swearing of fealty it would mean the deaths of everyone present. So instead of shouting, her people pray. It is a prayer muttered in whispered tones but with a ferocious strength behind it.

 

_The Queen in the North. The Queen in the North. The Queen in the North._

 

The men and women take to their seats again and there is much conversation and joy among them. Then Lord Royce asks the question she had been hoping to avoid all night. "What of Jon Snow, Your Grace?"

 

Sansa stares down at her clasped hands, her heart in her throat. What they have done today, Jon will not abide it. And if he doesn't then neither will Arya. To protect her people Sansa realizes that she will have to forswear her family. Only Bran will be left to her. She turns to Lord Royce, her blue eyes hard as ice, and gives him the only answer she can.

 

It is the answer of a Queen.

 

**==========**

 

The Great Hall is abuzz with chatter and movement. Everyone waits with nervous expectation for the one who requested a royal audience. Sansa does know what Daenerys Targaryen wishes to announce, but she knows it will not be good. She takes solace from the fact that at the very least, it has nothing to do with her secret crowning as Queen in the North.  _If the Dragon Queen had any knowledge of that, we all would have been burned alive already._

 

She watches them as they file into the hall. Tyrion and the Spider come first, dressed in fine robes trimmed with fur. The Dragon Queen comes after them. She is flanked by eunuch guards who look as if they had been carved from stone. Ser Jorah Mormont leads them forward with a hand on his sword's hilt. As she expected, Jon walks in last with only Ser Davos at his side.

 

Tyrion walks to the center of the hall while his queen and allies take to their dais. Sansa sees that his face is carefully blank. That troubles her.

 

“My noble lords and fair ladies,” says Tyrion Lannister. “I am sure you are all wondering why we have called you here today.” Grumblings of agreement accompany the statement. There is a muffled ‘Get on with it!’ from the back of the hall. Tyrion smiles and continues, “Well, we are here to discuss what is fair and what is owed. Now it has come to our attention that there are some among you that are........less than satisfied with a few of the recent decisions regarding this land’s sovereignty.” Angry murmurs of concurrence are accompanied by glares directed at Jon. His face is a cold stare that reminds Sansa of the ice that would collect below the windows of the keep.

 

When the sounds have died down, Tyrion says, “We are here to address those concerns. Let it never be said that Queen Daenerys is not a fair and just ruler. For from her good heart, we give you this choice.”

 

He pauses for dramatic effect and it works. The entire room is learning forward to hear what he has to say. He keeps them on the edge of their seats for a beat, before shocking the lot of them. “Accept Jon Snow’s decision to bend the knee or face our champion in single combat. Should your warrior prove victorious, then the queen will forget any matters pertaining to sovereignty until the White Walkers are defeated while reserving the right to negotiate at a later date. But should your warrior fail……you will accept Daenerys Targaryen as your queen in perpetuity.”

 

The silence that follows his declaration is deafening. Sansa sees Daenerys smirk discreetly into her hand at the bewilderment of her subjects. It sets her blood to boiling, and makes her slip into Tyrion’s trap before she can move herself out of it.

 

“I accept your challenge, dwarf.”

 

Sansa curses silenty at Lord Glover’s foolhardy acceptance. She opens her mouth to calm him when Lord Cerwyn stands and proclaims that he too accepts the challenge. Suddenly more and more lords and men-at-arms are rising to their feet. They roar and demand the honor of defending their home against the dragon’s champion.

 

Her eyes land on Tyrion, whose smile is nothing short of grotesque.  _He has caught me as assuredly as a rat in a trap._  Her bannermen have left her with precious few options.

 

Tyrion clears his throat before speaking. “Well, I am glad to see you all so energetic at my proposal. If anyone of you were hoping that I would stand as Her Grace’s champion, thus enabling one of you fine warriors to cut me in half….sorry to disappoint.”

 

That earned him some mean spirited jeers. Lord Glover spat, “If the Imp won’t stand for the Dragon Queen, then who will?”

 

“I will.”

 

The room sucks in a collective breath as Jon rises from his place. His face remains impassive, but there is a dark gleam to his eye. “I shall fight for the queen.”

 

The outrage this sparks is immediate. Her people roar at Jon. There are cries of ‘traitor’ and ‘bastard’ and all manner of foul titles. Sansa can barely hear any of it. Her attention is focused solely on Jon. She suddenly feels numb.  _So this is how it is to be, Jon? You will shed the blood of your own people for an outsider? And you once dared to lecture me on family!_

 

Jon lets them rage for a time before cutting through the noise, his voice as sharp as steel. “What did you all expect, my lords? That I would stand by quietly and let you make a liar of me? I swore the North to Daenerys Targaryen in exchange for her aid against our common enemy. It was my decision to make, but it is one you all do not agree with. So be it. If any of you sorry lot are brave enough to meet me with a sword in hand, come forward.” Jon’s eyes find Robett Glover’s. “What of you, my lord?”

 

Lord Glover grimaces and takes a half step back. The mood of the room has changed. The Northmen remember well what Jon had done during the Battle of the Bastards. Remember how he had butchered every Bolton soldier who had gotten in his way on that mad dash to Winterfell. Their cheers have faded to murmurs and looks of distress. It is no doubt what Tyrion had hoped for. She must act now.

 

Sansa rises from her seat, red hair spilling from her shoulders, and says, “I accept this challenge as Lady of Winterfell, with some conditions. The participants of the duel shall be allowed to yield at any time. I will not see needless death within my walls. There has been enough of that to last a life time.”

 

Tyrion gives her a nod and a smile. “Your kindness does you credit, my lady.”

 

_That’s Queen to you_. “In addition, I command that the Vale be allowed to name its own champion as well. They are allies to the North, not slaves.”

 

Daenerys nearly sputtered at that. “Command? You dare to give us commands? Do not forget yourself, Lady Stark.”

 

Sansa had a retort on the tip of her tongue before Jon interjected. “I will abide by those conditions. And I will fight however many champions I must for us to put this time wasting fiasco behind us. I ask only that you pick your men quickly so we might get on with it.” The Dragon Queen looked miffed by Jon's interruption but said nothing more.

 

The tension in the room could be cut with a sword. Sansa refused to bend to Jon’s gaze. After a time, he turned away and addressed Tyrion and his queen. When all was said and done, he left with them as Sansa and her subjects readied themselves to face the queen’s gambit head on.

 

**==========**

 

"This is such a stupid idea." Arya's voice was pitched low enough that only Sansa could hear it.

 

"So you've told me," she replied. 

 

The Stark sisters watched as the lords in front of them argued over who should represent the North in combat. With Jon out of the room, it seemed they had regrown their courage.  _My bannermen are wind vanes indeed_ , Sansa thought. 

 

As expected every man in the North that owned a sword thought that they should be chosen. Boys of three and ten as well as old grey beards were clamoring for the honor to face the White Wolf in combat. Although she disagreed with Arya's bluntness, she could not say she was wrong.  _Not a single one of them could ever hope to best Jon._

 

The Vale proved less divided than their Northern counterparts. In less than an hour they had agreed on a champion and presented him to Sansa. Ser Symond Templeton stood tall and gave her a respectful nod. He was a strong looking man with cold blue eyes and thick black hair. He kept a small pointed beard. Although not an ugly man, his great beak of a nose certainly did draw the eye. Sansa tried to recall everything she knew about House Templeton. They were distant cousins to her own family, as well as the largest and most prominent of the Vale's Knightly Houses. The head of the family was known as the Knight of Ninestars. They were no Swords of the Morning, but none could deny the Templetons were famous for their skills with a blade.

 

Sansa gave Ser Symond a gentle smile. "I thank you for your service, Ser. Are you certain this is what you wish?"

 

He answered without hesitation. "Absolutely, my lady. It is not only a question of honor, but also of duty. I will not balk from this challenge."

 

She gave a sad nod at his words. Oh, how she wished it had not come to this. But there was no point in wishing for what could have been. Schooling her features, she said, "Let it be so. Ser Symond of House Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, shall represent the Vale in single combat against Daenerys Targaryen."

 

The Valemen gave a shout as Ser Symond returned to them. The Northmen meanwhile remained locked in heated debate. Discretely, Sansa turned to her sister and asked, "Your thoughts?"

 

Arya looked thoughtful. "He seems strong enough. His stance and the way he carries himself.....he's killed men before. That is plain to see. But are you asking me if I think he can beat Jon? If so, then the answer is no."

 

Sansa hummed in response. She knew her sister was biased in this particular area. As if reading her thoughts, Arya scowled and said, "And don't go forgetting who I'll be rooting for tomorrow."

 

"I am well aware."

 

**==========**

 

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to." 

 

Jon looks up from his meal to see Daenerys looming over him. He, the queen, and her council are breaking bread in the maester's office while they discuss strategy. It is a subdued affair. None of them are looking forward to what is to come, aside from Tyrion. The Queen's Hand is quite satisfied with the day's work, if his intake of wine is any indication.

 

Pushing his food away, he gives Daenerys a small smile. "I've given my word already, Your Grace. Can't go back on it now."

 

She stares at him for a long moment, before nodding. Daenerys slides into the seat next to him and reaches for his hands. Jon interlocks his fingers with hers and waits. She asks, "Do you think you'll have to kill tomorrow?"

 

Jon looks down at their hands and feels the ice forming in the pit of his stomach. He raises his eyes to look at her and says, "Yes, I think I'll have to."


	3. a most puissant warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different." - Sandor Clegane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes and part time jobs suck.

It takes two days for the snowfall to lessen enough for the duel to take place. Sansa observes from the battlements as men shovel and push white powder from the center of the main courtyard. As they did another group struggle to set up a massive clothe tent that would house the fighters and highborn. The tent had been a gift from the Dragon Queen. No doubt she thought herself gracious for it.

 

Sansa pulls her cloak tighter around herself to ward off the chill in the air. There was a very strong chance that a man would die that day. That man could very well be Jon. She suddenly recalled the feeling of his strong arms wrapping around and holding her close.

 

The wind cutting at her cheeks reminded her of the kiss of a knife.

 

She turns at the sound of footsteps and sees Lord Royce walking swiftly towards her. He gives a respectful nod before saying, "Preparations are almost complete, my lady. A few more hours and the duel can begin."

 

Sansa nodds. "Excellent. And extend my gratitude to the men for their hard work," seeing the look on his face, she asks, "Is something amiss?"

 

Lord Royce cast a surreptitious glance around before whispering, "I have had word that Lord Snow is in good form today. Ser Symond will be in for a hard fight."

 

She glances away. "Indeed. I shall pray to the Gods for their protection."

 

Royce murmurs his agreement and took his leave, noting that he still had matters to attend to. Sansa let him go easily. She suddenly craved the solitude of Winterfell. Looking down into the courtyard once more, Sansa couldn't help but wonder what her Father would make of this farce.

 

==========

 

Several hours later, Sansa took her place upon the dais alongside the Northern and Vale lords. The tent was filled to bursting with men and women jostling for a spot. Outside stood a shifting mass of humanity. Low level knights, men-at-arms, guards, Dothraki, and Unsullied mingled together. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the Knight of Ninestars battling the White Wolf. 

 

Lord Royce and his compatriots sit to her left and talk animatedly about the duel to come. It seems as if she was the only person present who was afraid.

 

She spies Arya and her blacksmith standing at the front of a group of Northmen near the entrance. Her sister has a sword strapped to her hip and an unreadable look on her face. Sansa tries to catch her eye but the blare of a horn tears her away. 

 

The Dragon Queen and her advisors file into the tent. She is bedecked in a wool dress the color of snow, with a silver cloak cinched at the neck by a red clasp. More disturbing though, is the white direwolf by her side. Ghost pads along with his head held high and red eyes gleaming, seemingly oblivious to the grumbles of the Northerners. Sansa feels her heart constrict.  _Even Ghost has abandoned his pack._

 

Daenerys takes her seat, the perfect picture of regal indifference. Tyrion stops before the dias and waits for quiet. "My friends, the time has come. I dare say we're in for some messy blood sport. Are you all prepared?"

 

The crowd roars in response. The promise of blood has lit a fire in them. Fists are raised and feet are slammed into the ground. Overhead a cheer rings up, deafening in its volume. "TO BATTLE! TO BATTLE! GIVE US BLOOD!"

 

"Then let us welcome our champions!"

 

A part of the crowd gives way and an armored figure steps forward. He is adorned in silver plate armor, with a surcoat of black and gold covering his torso. Nine stars divide the coat of arms into four parts. Ser Symond walks proudly to the center of the courtyard. When he arrives, he turns to her and Lord Royce and gives a deep bow. The Valemen begin to cheer loudly. The knight seems to puff up from the applause and eagerly accepts his shield from a squire. 

 

Jon's entrance has much less fanfare. There is no cheering as he steps into the circle that is to be the boundary for the duel. He is dressed as he always is, in a light coat of plates. His vambraces are silver and match the gorget at his throat that still bears the snarling wolf heads. His eyes are cold and hard as he adjusts his sword belt. Sansa notices that he carries no shield. 

 

Cruel jeers rise up as he takes his place opposite of Ser Symond. If they bother him, Jon gives no indication. He turns his head to nod at Daenerys, then her. Sansa makes sure to keep her face completely blank.

 

Tyrion raises both arms to address the warriors. "Ser Symond of House Templeton, are you prepared to champion the cause of the Vale of Arryn?"

 

The knight draws his sword and slams it against the shield. "I am prepared."

 

Turning to Jon, Tyrion asks, "And you, Lord Snow? Are you prepared to champion the cause of Queen Daenerys Targaryen?"

 

Jon doesn't take his eyes off his foe when he replies, "I am."

 

"THEN LET THE BATTLE COMMENCE!"

 

Jon draws Longclaw from its scabbard as Tyrion ducks out of the circle. He gives it a single twirl before Ser Symond charges. Their blades met in an ear bleeding screech of steel that has the crowd baying for blood. Jon turns the blade aside and swings down in a vicious two-handed strike. The knight blocks it but stumbls from the force. As they continue to dance around one another with their swords kissing periodically, out of the corner of her eye Sansa could see Arya shaking her head. A feeling of foreboding coils in her tummy. 

 

Although she is no warrior, Sansa begins to notice a troubling pattern in the duel. After initial contact, Jon began a ferocious campaign of hammering Templeton's shield, then retreating out of reach of the knight's sword. With the heavy plate weighing him down, the Vale's champion could barely catch Jon, who danced around the circle as if he were a dancer. She couldn't help but flinch at the sickening crunch of Jon's blows smashing into Ser Symond's shield once more. 

 

Risking a glance away from the duel, she observes the reactions of those around her. Royce and his fellows were watching intently, the hope of victory shining in their eyes. The Northerners join them, thumping their chests and calling for Jon's defeat. She discreetly peaks at the Dragon Queen's entourage to find Tyrion watching the duel with almost lazy indifference. A twinkle in his eye though makes her think his thoughts are not so relaxed. The queen herself was focused solely on Jon.

 

A cry forces her to return to the battle in time to see Jon force Ser Symond back with a flurry of full armed strikes. He pushes and pushes until the knight is backed to the edge of the circle. Just before he falls over the edge Jon relents and pulls back. Ser Symond steadies himself and lunges. 

 

There is a whirl of motion as Jon spins. The edges of his coat flares outward in a wave of grey. Despite herself, Sansa cannot deny the grace in his form.  _This is what a king should look like,_  she thinks.

 

Ser Symond's scream is loud and primordial. It causes the crowd to quit immediately, as if they know what is to come next and don't wish to miss it. Blood is spurting from the knight's wrist where his right hand used to be. Said hand, still clutching a sword, lies on the ground in a pool of blood. Ser Symond falls to his knees. He tries to cradle the stump of his hand. The blood keeps pouring like an overflowing river.

 

Jon raises his Valyrian sword and points it at the kneeling knight. Sansa can see blood dripping from the tip of the blade all the way to the hilt. The white wolf head pommel is slowly turning red with the life essence of Symond Templeton. Her brother's voice is a deep rasp when he finally speaks, "Yield."

 

It denies all sense when Ser Symond heaves himself up. His breathing is a gross mess of ragged wheezing and snorts. His eyes are filled with pain and bulge out of his skull. The bloody river that is his arm is cradled to his armored chest. Yet his voice is strong when he replies, "No, bastard."

 

A second later the Valemen leap to their feet and roar. Their cheers are full and hearty. The sight of their countryman fighting for their freedom in spite of his wounds have set their hearts aglow. They cry his name even as he tilts back and forth, hardly managing to keep on his feet. Sansa can hear the hope in their voices as they cheer him on, begging him to prevail. 

 

Sansa can only watch as Jon's shoulders appear to deflate before he begins striding forward, blade held loosely at his side. 

 

This seemed to snap Ser Symond out of his stupor. He fumbles weakly for the dagger at his hip. His left hand is clumsy when he finally pulls it out. _Yield_ , Sansa thinks. _You have done your duty splendidly. Yield and return to your family_. The knight cannot hear her thoughts or perhaps he can and simply ignores them, for when Jon reaches him Ser Symond thrusts his dagger forward with all the grace of a drunkard. Jon dodges cleanly and calmly flicks his blade. There is another cry of agony as the Knight of Ninestars falls to the ground for the last time. His dagger tumbles away, along with two fingers from his left hand. His moans are something Sansa is sure she will never forget.

 

"Yield", says Jon Snow, Warden in the North.

 

Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, does not rise a second time. 

 

The silence that accompanies this is deafening. Sansa can practically taste the shock in the air. It is quickly followed by outrage, then despair. _I have to say something_. She is about to speak when the cheering begins. Sansa would wager gold dragons on the assumption that most Dothraki and Unsullied speak very little Westerosi. It would appear they had begun to learn though, as their cheers rose up to cover the yard in a blanket of zeal.

 

"SNOW!SNOW!SNOW!SNOW!"

 

The horselords are hooting and the eunuchs are thumping their spears into the ground and the Dragon Queen has risen to her feet. She splays her arms toward Jon, as if saying _Look at him. Is he not magnificent?_

 

Seeing the pain in the eyes of her subjects and the way Jon begins to bask in the thunderous applause raining down upon him, Sansa cannot disagree more.

 

==========

 

It is late into the evening when Sansa finally has a moment to herself. She has done nothing but calm and console the lords of the Vale since their champion's defeat. The tactless celebrations by the Dragon Queen and her followers doesn't help the situation. Sansa slumps into the chair near the hearth and gingerly rubs her temple.

 

The knock at the door has her suppressing a groan as she pulls herself up. _I cannot even have a moment to myself_ , she thinks ruefully. Opening the door reveals Brienne of Tarth. Sansa freezes. The face of her sworn shield is pinched with discomfort. More bad news it seems.

 

Once inside, Sansa asks bluntly what has happened. "Ser Symond died from his wounds a few moments ago. Maester Wolkan believes he simply lost too much blood to continue on."

 

The Lady of Winterfell shakes her head and looks away. Yet more death and heartache. _Will Winterfell ever return to the way it once was?_ Sansa knew the answer to that question already. It filled her with bitterness. "I must go to the lords of the Vale. We must speak."

 

Before she can move, Brienne interjects, "There is more, my lady."

 

Sansa nods. "Yes?"

 

Brienne doesn't answer though. Instead she grimaces and shifts in place. It occurs to Sansa how uncomfortable she looks in that moment. "Brienne," Sansa says gently. "It is all alright. Just say what you wish."

 

The Maid of Tarth takes a deep breath to steady herself before squaring her shoulders. "It could very well be nothing. But I thought you had the right to know. While I was returning from the courtyard I came across your brother talking with Samwell Tarly."

 

Sansa furrows her brow in confusion. "Yes, the two are closes friends. They served together at the Wall."

 

Brienne shakes her head. "I didn't mean Lord Snow, my lady. It was your brother Brandon."

 

_Bran?_

 

She continued on without stopping. "And it appeared to me, and I could be mistaken, that Lord Tarly was most.....upset."

 

"Upset? How so?"

 

Brienne clears her throat uncomfortably. "He was red in the face and shaking. It looked almost like he was pleading with Lord Brandon."

 

Sansa could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. _Just what are you up to, Bran?_

 

**==========**

 

Jon sips tentatively from the mug of Arbor Gold. It is sweeter than what he is used to, but undeniably delicious. Tyrion looks on with smug satisfaction as Jon dips his head to take another sip. "Do you see, my friend? I never lie when it comes to good wine."

 

Daenerys snorts. "You're good for something at least." 

 

Jon cracks a grin and Daenerys beams. Tyrion argues half-halfheartedly on the cruelty of the two of them before turning to Varys for support. The Spider's titters echo loudly in the solar. The Hand of the Queen sighs dramatically before throwing his hands up in defeat.

 

As they discuss the day's triumphs, Daenerys discretely slips her hand under the table and into his. It is small and very warm. Jon grips it and squeezes. In spite of the dark duty thrust upon him that day, Jon feels content. The march to the Wall is fast approaching and so is the confrontation with the Night King. But with today's victory, Jon feels more assured that the North's mortal enemy will face a more united force when he comes for blood. 

 

 _There's not a single thing that could spoil this feeling_ , Jon thinks. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've noticed a recent trend on this website that is beginning to annoy me. If anyone reading this fic doesn't like the way I write or just the general plot of the story, feel free to comment. As a writer, I don't like the sudden rise in "don't like don't read" mentality. I made a conscious decision to open myself to either praise or scorn when I decided to upload a story to this website. Simple as that.


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